16 Jun 2013

The Red Light District and Other Tales

It was eight in the evening and the sun was still
a peachy orange. Armadas of vintage bicycles were resting on top of
bridges above canals of slowly moving water, their handlebars glinting. Picturesque
houses on either side slanted forwards, their crooked façades giving them the
appearance of reaching out towards the water below. The night was still young.

Walking down streets the distinctive smell of
weed brought me back to my first year at university; the unforgettable stench
would linger in the corridor of my student residence or waft in through my
window in the early hours of the morning. Walking into one coffee shop -
the notorious name for a cannabis cafe - we were met by dazed faces. A
group of young men were sprawled out in one corner of space cake city, smoking
joints and absentmindedly watching the peculiar music videos being aired on the
different screens. A druggy's paradise.

I watched my friends around me nibbling on their
first hash brownies or sharing joints. I didn't mind being there but I
didn't want to try it. I suppose part of me was scared I might have a bad
reaction to it. And then there was the money issue...I didn't want to
spend well-earned money on weed. Cheese, yes, but not weed. Yet the root
of my decision was that despite it being one of those "When in Rome"
moments, I just wasn't interested.

...

On first glance, it seemed like any other part of
Amsterdam.I searched for women in micro
skirts and too much make-up but they were nowhere to be seen. We wondered if we
weren't a bit early. But then, looking to our left, we noticed alleyways lit up with red lights. I thought red
light was merely a phrase for "risqué", "naughty" or
"dangerous" but it suddenly all made
sense. I was feeling nervous but intrigued and we decided to follow the
flow of men and women who hounded the windows. Beams of pinky red light infused the cramped passageways and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear as we ebbed deeper and deeper into the heart of Amsterdam's sex trade. I had been warned not to take
photos; the pimps were protective of their ladies and wouldn't allow it.
I'd heard stories of cameras being taken and smashed to the ground.

Walking past the windows, we saw slim,
ample-breasted women wearing what looked like thin strips of elastic
cloth,
barely covering the essentials. Some stared out at their voyeurs;
others
looked bored; some played on their mobile phones. I don't know what was
more upsetting; the women who actually looked like they wanted to be
there, or
the women who were conscious of their prison. I felt a rush of guilt
cloud over me. They had been turned into dogs and these were
their kennels. I saw a few men
walking out of doorways, buttoning up shirts or doing up their flies. As we rushed back towards civilisation, seedy men eyed us up. I couldn't help but ask my friends: "since when did prostitutes wear baggy jumpers and converse?"